Chapter 12 - The Storage Bay Lockout
The heavy iron door of the maintenance hangar slammed shut behind the guards with a thunderous clang, plunging Marcus into absolute, suffocating darkness. The sound of the deadbolt sliding home echoed sharply off the concrete walls. Through the gaps in the corrugated metal siding, Marcus could see the blinding white strobes of the private jet flashing rhythmically as it prepared for takeoff.
He was trapped again. But this time, there was no radio, no backup, and no illusions left to shatter.
Marcus stumbled blindly through the pitch-black storage bay, his hands brushing against stacked crates, greasy machinery parts, and heavy coils of electrical cable. He needed a tool, a crowbar, anything to force the rusted side exit door before the Gulfstream cleared the airspace.
His fingers scraped against something sharp—a heavy iron tire iron resting on top of a workbench. He gripped it tightly, turning on his heel and driving the heavy metal end against the deadbolt housing of the side exit door with all his remaining strength.
Clang!
The impact sent a shockwave up his forearms, but the lock held firm. He struck it again, harder, the metallic screech ringing out in the enclosed space.
Clang! Clang!
On the third strike, the rotten wooden doorframe splintered inward, and a shaft of pale amber light cut across the dark floor. Marcus threw his shoulder against the cracked wood, bursting out into the cold rain just as the roar of the private jet’s engines reached a deafening crescendo overhead.
He looked up into the stormy night sky. The Gulfstream’s navigation lights were already climbing rapidly through the low-hanging cloud cover, heading south toward international waters.
Marcus stood alone on the wet tarmac, breathing heavily, the tire iron dangling uselessly from his hand. He had lost. The plane was gone, the contracts were absolute, and the woman he had loved for years had turned out to be a ghost built on corporate paper.
Suddenly, the department-issued tactical radio clipped to his torn belt crackle-hissed to life, breaking the silence of the empty airfield.
"Vance? Do you copy?" a voice whispered through the static. It wasn't Captain Miller. It wasn't Detective Vance.
It was Clara.
Marcus froze, lifting the radio to his mouth with shaking fingers. "Clara? Where are you? They put you on the plane!"
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"I'm not on the plane, Marcus," her voice came back, punctuated by the sharp sound of a heavy door locking from the inside and the steady beep of a medical monitor in the background. "They loaded a decoy onto the Gulfstream. I'm still inside the Kensington research facility's basement vault. And I have the hard drive with every single financial wire transfer that proves Eleanor murdered my father."
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